


Because You Loved Me

by mydogwatson



Series: WHILE THE MUSIC LASTS [28]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Middle Age, Poor John, Sorry Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-06
Updated: 2013-10-06
Packaged: 2017-12-28 15:26:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/993521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A trip to the beach.  Sherlock is a good husband.  All hearts are broken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Because You Loved Me

**Author's Note:**

> Second story for today. They hurt so good.

You were always there for me,  
The tender wind that carried me.  
You’ve been my inspiration,  
Through the lies you were the truth.  
I’m everything I am because you  
loved me.  
-Michael Feinstein

 

“Only the English would imagine this to be a suitable day for sitting on the beach,” Sherlock complained, not for the first time.

“I would like to remind you, Sir Sherlock, OBE, that you are, in fact, English as well,” John pointed out with a chuckle.

“Ah, but I am extraordinary.”

“Indeed you are,” John agreed. He pulled one hand out from beneath the blanket tucked tightly around him and smoothed wind-ruffled, silver-tipped curls from his husband’s face. “Extraordinary.”

Sherlock turned his head to nuzzle at the palm caressing him. “I do not want to risk you getting a chill. After all, you are still recuperating from the surgery.”

“I know. But I just wanted some air. We won’t stay long, I promise. Don’t fret.”

Sherlock looked offended. “I do not fret,” he said, carefully replacing John’s hand under the blanket and giving it a pat.

“My apologies for the slur. But you needed some air as well. These last weeks---”

Sherlock placed his index finger on John’s lips. “If you now intend to apologise for being ill, I request that you do not. Over the years, you have been the caretaker far more often than I. Perhaps the scales simply needed balancing a bit. If anything, I should apologise for my scanty skills in that area.”

“Your skills in that area are fine.” Sherlock looked skeptical. “Really. You have taken wonderful care of me.”

“Well, I have to, don’t I?” Sherlock kissed John’s cheek.

They fell silent for a time, as John watched the foaming grey waves colliding with the shore and Sherlock watched John.

He tried not to make his concern, [oh, call it what it is, he told himself impatiently] his fear, too obvious. There were still two days before they would know for sure whether or not the surgery had been completely effective in repairing the damage to John’s heart.

And that was the irony, wasn’t it? That John Watson’s heart would fail him. That stout and loyal heart. Sometimes Sherlock thought perhaps the fault was all his. How many times over their years together had he broken John’s heart or caused it to ache? It should come as no surprise that the organ was now so fragile.

He smiled a little, thinking of what John would say should he ever make his thoughts on the subject known.

When he saw how pink John’s cheeks were becoming, Sherlock announced that their beach excursion was over. John only nodded in agreement, which meant that he was indeed tired. It was the work of several minutes to maneuver the pushchair through the sand and back to the boardwalk.

They stopped for tea and toasted crumpets at a rather twee little shop with altogether too much chinz in its décor. It gave Sherlock the perfect opportunity to complain that no one else could make tea as well as John.

John straightened a little in the chair and smiled.

Once they were back in their hotel room, coats and scarves discarded, John stretched out on the bed for a rest. Sherlock joined him, his I-pad in hand. “A case?” John enquired sleepily, moving to rest his head against Sherlock’s bicep.

“Oh, just something that Dimmock should have been able to handle on his own. Sadly, he has never lived up to the scant promise I once saw in him.”

“Your standards are very high.”

Sherlock, still looking at the screen, smiled a little. “Hence the presence of John Watson in my bed.”

John chuckled. “Don’t mind if I drop off for a bit, ‘kay?” He always seemed to feel the need to apologise for napping while Sherlock worked.

Sherlock kissed the grey hair and then concentrated on the file.  
It took him only a few minutes to deduce the solution [painfully obvious, really] and then send an email to Dimmock. Really, no one had equaled the work of Lestrade and, yet again, Sherlock cursed the man for retiring. Could he really be enjoying life in that tiny Spanish village, drinking sangria and playing golf with other old men?

Finished, he set the I-pad aside and simply watched John sleep.

It was only at moments like this that Sherlock allowed otherwise forbidden thoughts to worm their way into his head.

John. Did he have any idea of, could he ever understand, his importance in Sherlock’s life? No, that wasn’t quite correct. He was not important in Sherlock’s life; he was that life. Over the years he had made Sherlock Holmes into a better man. Probably not a good man, really, but far better than he would have been without that tender influence.

Sherlock gave a soft snort. It was doubtful that he’d even be alive now if not for John Watson. If not for John Watson’s love and care.

The day that John had collapsed in their kitchen was a constant, stabbing pain in Sherlock’s own chest. He would never forget his first sight of the blanched skin or the horrid stillness and lack of any response to his frantic whisperings of “John, John.” He had nightmares of the stunned moment he’d realised that there was no pulse, no heartbeat; that moment had stirred something inside Sherlock, something that had lain dormant since the day they stopped chasing the villains themselves, stopped leaping rooftops, and dodging bullets. Danger, then, had been their constant companion and they both loved it. Loved even knowing that their lives were frequently balanced on a very narrow edge.

The truth that kept them going was, in part, the knowledge that if one lost the battle, fell to a bullet, succumbed to a knife thrust, that the other would undoubtedly follow on very soon. It was a dangerous life, after all. So easy to misstep, to react a split second too slowly and no one else the wiser.

No one was more surprised than the couple themselves that they had survived it all. The foolish chances, the wounds, even the plunge and its aftermath, that whole insane and wonderful life.

But they had done and as they settled into middle age, Sherlock had allowed himself to relax. He cursed that nonchalance now.

Still, why should he have been worried? After all, their life was quiet now, with no more psychotic killers haunting them, no more bombs showing up at unexpected times. And John was only fifty-eight. There had been no warning at all.

His foolish insouciance all ended on the day he heard the crash of a loaded tea tray, followed by the thud of a body hitting the floor. Everything that came after that moment---his desperate efforts kneeling there in a puddle of hot tea and milk to keep that precious heart beating, the ambulance ride, kissing John’s forehead as they wheeled him away to the operating theatre three days later---all of that was a shock to Sherlock. And he knew that he would never be able to relax his vigilance again.

To ensure that, an entire room in his Mind Palace was devoted to that day and everything that followed.

There had been only a few times in his life when Sherlock Holmes had felt stupid. Interestingly, most of those times involved John Watson.

But the stupidest he had ever felt was while sitting in the hospital room waiting for John to regain consciousness after the heart attack. That was the moment he fully realised the truth: // John Watson will die one day and I will be alone again.//

And now, in this Brighton hotel, to which he had brought his husband for no other reason than that John wanted to sit on the beach and watch the waves, he wrapped himself around the sleeping man. He put one hand, feather light, onto John’s chest and felt the heart in there beating. Beating strongly. Beating for him. Always and forever for Sherlock Holmes, who probably didn’t deserve it, but who wanted it and needed it so desperately.

He tightened his arms and held on. Held on for dear life.

fini


End file.
